Husband Wanted: Will Train

She met his gaze and held it, her own fierce and wary, his dark with anger. What had she been thinking of? He really was a stranger, after all. He was someone she'd hired. She had to maintain the cool, boss-like presence with him, just as she did with her employees at the restaurant. She'd been acting like a little girl getting ready to play house.

What a fool she was!

"You had a call from the relief society, asking for do nations," he told her casually. "And your mail is on the entry-hall table."

She was in no mood to look through letters.

"I brought home some dinner," she said evenly, hold ing up the Styrofoam containers. "Let's eat in the kitchen."

She looked around at the furnishings again. Tomorrow it would all go back.

"Fine," he said coldly.

They glared at each other for a long moment, and then she turned abruptly and stalked to the kitchen, pausing only to gasp at the new crystal chandelier hang ing from her ceiling.

He followed.

Once in the kitchen, she hesitated, tempted to slap the Styrofoam container at his place on the little kitchen table, but she couldn't quite do it.

Whirling, she took down two china plates, set the food in the microwave for thirty seconds, then over turned the packages onto the plates. Pulling silverware out of the drawer, she turned to find Ross already seated, like a typical man, waiting to be served.

"What would you have done if I hadn't brought dinner home?" she asked as she set the food before him. "Starved?"

His blue eyes were coolly assessing. "I hired on here as a husband, not a servant," he reminded her. "My ideas of what a husband deserves may be outdated; I don't know. Perhaps we should go over them and see."

Despite the antagonism that had flared between them, his sensual suggestion made her glare at him, just to show him he was barking up the wrong tree if he had any thoughts along those lines.

A bottle of wine stood on the kitchen counter. They each eyed it surreptitiously now and then, but neither made a move to open it. Eating with the man was one thing, Charity thought to herself. But drinking wine with him was somehow a shade too personal.

She was furious and not really sure just why. Yes, the furniture was all wrong, but so what? In the morning she'd have it all shipped to where it came from, and the incident would be over.

Still her emotions were churning, and she could hardly stand to look Ross in the eye without throwing daggers. Why was she feeling such resentment over such a small thing? Was it because he'd disappointed her or because she felt he'd misread her so badly? Was it something else altogether?